


Tainted Heart

by Auty_Ren



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Blood and Injury, Dry Humping, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Groping, Kisses, Medical Procedures, Mentions of Blood, Outlaw!Mando, Slow Burn, Smut, Teasing, Touching, Yearning, cowboy!mando, cursing, fab!reader, heavy making out, mentions of virginity/inexperience, reader is female, reader is his babysitter, the baby (yoda) being adorable, unintentional edging, western!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26756287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auty_Ren/pseuds/Auty_Ren
Summary: What happens when a stranger seeks refuge in your home? Bruised and bloodied you wait as he rests, wondering what kind of life he led, and why a seemingly dangerous man would carry such precious cargo.(A Mandalorian Western!Au)
Relationships: Din Djarin & Reader, Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 15
Kudos: 149





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out the amazing art by @keethus-arts on Tumblr that was partial inspiration for this story. I’ve never done an Au like this before but I’m super excited to get this started. Enjoy.

Some things are just very hard to forget.

You'll never forget your father's laughter; big and hearty and filling the room with completely contagious joy. You'll never forget the smell of home, of cedar and smoke for the wood stove and something else that always lingered; that embedded nearly everything in the house in a signature you adored more than anything. And you'll never forget the smell of blood; this metallic copper smell that flooded your senses and sent your stomach into a fit as you washed it away. You eyed the wash pan that sat next to you, filled to the brim with rags soaked in red, almost taunting as you prepared yourself to touch them and hope they could get clean enough for your father to use again. They were dumped into the tub of water, the color that had seeped into the fabrics slowly fading as you scrubbed them against your washing board.

It became almost numbing; the smells, the movement, the sting of your raw flesh hitting the soapy water. You scrubbed at your knuckles, never feeling as if they were clean enough, like no matter hard you'd never be able to mask the smell that tainted your skin. You hung the wet rags out to dry, fumbling slightly from the darkness that crept closer every minute you stood outside; the sun disappearing behind far mountain ranges and painting the sky dark in its wake.

You hurried back into the house, wiping your hands on the apron of your dress and ignored the wet stains on your skirts from splashed water. Your father was exactly where you had left him, perched on the edge of his seat as he slowly stitched up the wounds of your impromptu patient. You brought over a second oil lamp, sitting on the table near your bed and turning it up in hopes your father could see better. He mumbled some form of thanks as he concentrated on his work, his hands steady and trained from his years as a practicing physician.

He was one lucky son of a bitch.

Lucky that the house he had stumbled upon in haste had been one of healing. Lucky that your father was strong enough to drag his nearly unconscious body into the nearest surface, performing surgery to remove the bullets that had been lodged into his shoulder. Lucky that you and your father are so open to having a couple of strangers in their home.

Most people would've turned him away, even with a baby strapped to his chest.

You looked over to the crate you had set the child in; watching as his feet kicked slightly, his face etched in content as he slept. You breathed a sigh of relief, remembering how he had cried for what felt like hours, almost inconsolable even as you rocked him in your arms.

Your father let out a curse as he pricked himself, saying something to you that only fell on deaf ears. You almost stopped yourself, part of you scared to even ask the question that had been mingling in your thoughts, but it came out anyway.

“What do you think happened to them?”

He stopped for a moment, your father's eyes hardening as he pushed the rim of his glasses up his nose, his mouth falling open for a moment as if he wasn't sure what to say.

“I think it's best if we don't know.”

You could only nod in response, deciding it was better to drop the subject and watch as he cut away the man's shirt, exposing more wounds to be cleaned. There were already patches of dry blood on the stranger's clothes, most of it stiff and sticking to his skin. Even with how careful your father was, he couldn't stop the fresh wave of blood that seeped from the untreated injuries.

He's lost a lot of blood.

“Papa,” you started, your stomach churned as the smell of copper hit your nose.

“I know,” He cut you off, his attention never leaving the stranger laying in your bed.

He pressed a clean cloth into the wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding and turning his head towards you as he gestured behind you.

“I’ve got this, go help him.”

You tore your eyes away from your father's work, walking to where you had set down the child. He had stayed snug in his blanket, wiggling slightly when you came into his view. He reached for you immediately, fat tears rolling down his face as he began wailing for some unknown reason. You wrapped him tighter in the blanket you found him in, cradling him to your chest as you rocked him in your arms.

“It's alright,” you shush him, smoothing the tuffs of his hair that stuck out all over the place. “You're alright.”

He calmed down for a moment, his cries subsiding to gentle moans while the last few tears stained his reddened cheeks. You wiped them away with the brush of your fingers, cooing at him softly until his frown faded away. 

He babbled away in your arms; his hands reaching out to grab any part of your face he could reach and giggle at your reaction. Before you knew it his eyes fluttered, the gentle sound of your humming lulling him to sleep. Part of him fighting it every step of the way; even as the lids of his eyes finally slipped closed he whined, reaching for the collar of your shirt and bunching it up in his small hand.

You looked back at your father, watching as he threaded the needle he would use to stitch up the stranger's wounds. He looked at you for a moment, clearly reading the question that lingered on your tongue. He returned his attention to the needle in his hand, his voice soft and similar to the tone he always used with you as a child; something almost comforting in the way he spoke to you.

“Everything will be alright.”

-

He slept nearly all day.

There were hours spent trying to heal him, the sun fading away as moments ticked by without so much as movement from the stranger. The only sign he was still living was the faint groans that came from his throat, his chest bound under layers of bandages that rose and fell with each breath he took. You sat a wooden chair next to your bed, unrolling fresh linens to replace his bandages; your father already retired upstairs with how late it had gotten. You cut the strips in silence, the only sound being the crackle of the fire in the hearth of your living room and the gentle sounds of night that came through the windows. 

You hummed a little as you worked, trying your best to stay awake for just a moment longer, just long enough that you could tend to your guest and then you would finally succumb to the exhaustion that clouded your mind.

Your eyes snapped to the revolver that sat on the end table, the barrel gleaming under the faint light and catching your attention in the darkness.

Your father owned a gun, it was somewhere in this house; although, you weren't sure even he remembered where it was most of the time. He had never found a need for weapons, no matter how violent the outside had become he never dared to use it. The few times he had let you see the gun, you noticed how new it looked; the metal smooth and untouched as if it had never left the factory it came from.

This stranger was nothing like your father.

His gun was cared for, clean, and glimmering with every flicker of the fire that sat behind you. But it was worn, the leather of the handle fraying on the edges and scratches littering the barrel from how often it was used. There was still a faint smell of gunpowder that lingered around him, faint but completely distinguishable from the metallic property; it clung to your hands after just a few seconds of holding his gun.

He had probably killed before. It's at least what you assumed, especially considering your father had removed two bullets from his shoulders just a few hours ago.

You wondered if he was a killer.

You looked over to the baby you had found him with, swaddled in fresh blankets and dreaming away in the makeshift crib you had laid him in. It didn't make any sense, for a gunman, a killer, to travel with a child; something so full of innocence and likely to complicate things.

You tried not to think too hard as you cut open his bandages, the wounds oozing as you peeled away the pieces that stuck to his body. You wiped at the stitches with a wet cloth, dapping away blood until you felt it was clean enough. He moved under your hands as you poured alcohol on the wound, his breathing quicker as his brows furrowed in his sleep; no doubt the pain was irritating even while unconscious. 

You replaced the cotton patches, holding them in place with one hand while you wrapped the linen to secure them. His skin was warm underneath your touch, your eyes following as your fingers trailed a few inches away from his bandages. Some scars peppered his chest, most of them small and delicate under the low light. Your eyes studied them, part of you wondering their origin, of what stories he could tell you just from the map that littered his body.

He released a deep sigh and for a moment you were afraid you had woken him, your hands stopping as you waited for him to settle. You closed what was left of his shirt back over his chest, wanting to maintain some sort of decency and leave him to rest.

But you couldn't move.

You sat still, your eyes searching for something you were even sure of, stalling in wait for something you didn't think existed; until they finally landed in his face. Or what you could see if it.

He still wore the cloth that covered his mouth and nose, neither you nor your father thinking about removing it.

It couldn't hurt, could it?

You know there was probably a reason he hid, a reason you assumed was less than righteous. He was probably dangerous, you had figured that much from just appearance. And yet you sat by his bedside, tending to his wounds as if he were an old friend or even a lover.

You wondered what color his eyes would be when he opened them.

You almost cursed yourself for being so stupid, for acting like some lovestruck schoolgirl over someone you hadn't even spoken a word to. You let out a shaky sigh as you leaned back into your chair, your eyes slipping closed and burning from how tired they had gotten. Sleep was exactly what you needed, but you wouldn't be able to, not until you were satisfied.

What harm could it do?

Your hands were hesitant, almost shaking as they brushed across his cheeks. The material of his mask was soft under your hands as your fingers curled around it, slowly pulling to reveal more of him to you.

Then his eyes opened.

His grip was near bruising on your wrists, his fingers curling around your hands as he attempted to sit up. You could see the pain that flashed across his face, a glimmering moment that had his eyes squinting as he let out a groan. 

“Where is he?” His voice was gruff, something that rumbled deep in his chest as he pointed the words at you.

You gestured with your head over to the baby; watching as his eyes followed until they landed on him, still sleeping soundly in his blankets. He released you, moving quicker than you expected as he pushed himself off the bed. You fell back into your seat, rubbing at your wrists as you watched him move towards the child. One of his hands came up to his shoulder, pressing gently into the bandages you had just replaced. He wasn't sure on his feet, he leaned heavily to one side and used the back of furniture to carry him across the room. You stayed far too still, your breath shallow and rapid in your attempt to remain quiet.

You needed your father.

He hadn't wanted to be alone with him in the first place, insisting you stay in his room until this man had left. You had only barely convinced him to go to bed, his eyes tired and his voice weak from the hours spent mending bullet wounds. You promised to be only a moment then you would come to bed, though you doubted either of you would be able to sleep; too worried about the stranger sleeping on your dining room table.

And now he was awake and fear gripped your chest from his leering presence, even with his shaking hands and weak-eyed stare. You looked over to the staircase, just to the right of where he stood, hoping that if you moved quickly enough you could make it past. He was hurting, you could tell by the way his shoulders tensed with each movement; but even with your advantage, he could still catch you.

You would hate to find out what would happen if he did.

You followed the movement from the corner of your eye; landing on the man’s back as he leaned over the crib, one hand bracing himself against the edge, while his other reached out for the child. 

“Thank you.”

He spoke so quietly, the words barely registering to your ears; like a secret he was afraid to tell, a relief releasing from his lungs with a shuddering breath.

You were hesitant before you spoke again.

“For what?”

His fingers brushed along the baby’s hairline, mimicking your earlier actions as he smoothed the hair under his touch.

“Taking care of him.”

You released the fist you had been making with your palm, your fingers unfurling almost painfully from how tight you had made them. Your shoulders relaxed a little as you released a breath, sitting up in your chair slowly until you rested on the edge; your eyes never leaving his back as you watched him coo at his child.

Now would be your chance, running while he was distracted.

But you couldn't move.

Something kept you still, curiosity filling your mind with questions and wonder that burned on the tip of your tongue; a million things suddenly becoming more important than any fear you had previously felt.

“You need to rest.”

Your voice is much too quiet and he doesn't respond; his arm is shaking slightly, shallows breaths falling from his lips that were deafening in the silence. You eased yourself from your chair, the old wood creaking with the absence of your weight. There was something that drove you towards; a combination of fear and determination that was dangerous and knotted in the pit of your stomach. You moved tentatively, your footsteps nearly silent as you walked across the floor. He was only a moment away from where you stood, just watching the baby sleeping. You only hesitated for a moment, your hand stopping for just a second as you reached out to touch his elbow.

He turned towards you, his eyebrows furrowing briefly as the hand on his shoulder squeezed tighter; red blotches soaking through the fabric and painted the tips of his fingers. You convinced him to sit down, your hand barely brushing over his arm and back as you led him to the couch; a ‘much more comfortable option’ you pointed out. He huffed at your attempt at a joke, settling against the cushions as his head rolled to the side facing away from you.

The silence was almost comforting as you worked, removing the bandages and cleaning them with leftover rags.

His stitches had popped open, and at this point, it seemed like waking your father wasn't an option.

You grabbed the supplies your father had left out, trying to steady your hands as you threaded the needle and sat down next to him.

You had watched papa do it a hundred times, surely it couldn't be that difficult? The least you could do is patch him up until the morning, then your father could take a look again. You cleaned his injuries one more time and pulled the failed stitching from his skin. He held his breath as you started, no doubt hating the feeling of his body being torn and mended like a piece of fabric.

“What's your name?”

It felt a little silly to make small talk, but you hadn't even learned his name the entire time he was under your care. You didn't want to call him ‘stranger’ for the rest of his stay; and conversation could sometimes be a big distraction, at least that's what your father had told you.

“Mando.”

He sounded exhausted, the words barely slipping from his lips and quietly carrying through the room. His face was still turned away from you, the black mask he wore still in fact and muffling his words slightly.

“Your real name?” You quirked an eyebrow at him, not believing him for a moment.

“The only one you need to worry about.” He quipped back, groaning when you pulled a little too hard on one of the stitches.

You mumbled an apology, scooting closer to get a better look. It took some time and was less graceful than your father's work, but you had everything back in place, tying off the final stitch when you looked up. He had been watching you, his eyes averting away as soon as your gazes met. He blinked a few times, staring at the fire that still crackled in the hearth, his face cast in a delicate orange glow. You kept watching him, your eyes dancing across the angles of his features; noticing how beautiful his eyes glimmered under the flames. Something broke between the two of you, whatever moment that had passed fleeting and fading away like wisps of candle smoke. You pulled away from him a little, your face heating with embarrassment as you put space between the two of you.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” you spoke, fiddling with the gauze in your hand to pad his bandages. 

“I didn't mean to offend you.”

You didn't look directly at him, keeping your focus on the task of patching him up; but you felt him look back at you, something burning just underneath your skin and driving you mad. You had nearly finished when he spoke up, his voice thrumming through his chest and tickling the tips of your fingers.

“You didn't offend me.”

You get relieved somehow, your shoulders relaxing as you took a deep breath, placing his tattered shirt back on his shoulder and aiming to move away from him. 

He stopped you.

His fingers delicately tipped your chin, bringing your gaze away from your lap and focusing on him. You noticed his eyes first, their color-rich and piercing even in the low light; complimenting the gentle glow of the fire as it danced across his features.

“Thank you.” 

He was so close. His face just inches from yours and your noses nearly bumping together. You don't remember being this close, but something was drawing you to him; your chest almost pressed into his side and your knees knocking together. You can hardly remember anything you had wondered about today, any of the warnings your father gave you, any of the horrible things you imagined this man had done to get him here. 

He wasn't a good man, he couldn't be.

But if it weren't for the mask covering half of his face, you would've thought he was going to kiss you.

And you would've let him.

“You're welcome.”


	2. The Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your whole world is wrapped around the finger of a curious child, and while he makes a home in your heart, you wonder if his father is just as sweet as he is.
> 
> Maybe you'll be alone long enough to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for being so patient, I hope it was worth the wait! We’re finally seeing a little action. Enjoy babes.
> 
> Come say hi on my Tumblr: @auty-ren

The wool was rough under your fingertips, a heavy dull gray that almost burned under the harsh tint of the midday sun. They were heavy, soaking with water and suds as you lifted them from the wash pan, squeezing what excess you could out of the fibers. A coo broke through the static that had filled your mind, numb with the monotonous action of wet, wash, rinse, repeat. The child stayed strapped in the high chair, peeking at you through white sheets you hung to dry, his inquisitive hands stretching out when the breeze blew white cotton out close, but just barely grazing the reach of his fingers. He babbled again at the sight of you, squealing when you threw the curtains of laundry away and broke the makeshift barrier between you. 

He repeated the snarl you had given him, playful and disappearing between fits of smiles and giggles.

“Are you a monster, little one?”

He was meant to scare you, giving a growl that was far cuter than it was fearsome in his pretend game of monster.

“You’re too sweet to be a monster.”

He kicked his feet in excitement, gnawing at the bread you tore into pieces on the plate attached to his chair. He offered you a piece of it, forming unrecognizable syllables as he prompted you to take it from him.

You wanted to be selfish, to hide away with your newfound companion and keep him perched on your hip permanently. None of it should be temporary.

It had been years since your home felt so warm; since the fogged windows were lit with a bright, new life that fumbled over every surface. It was sticky, the feeling you had laying on your chest when you were woken to the sound of shrill cries; the ache in your tired bones all but faded at the tear-soaked smile that greeted you in the dim mornings.

Maybe you were just lonely, growing tired of the same life you lived each day when it was just you and Papa. 

Maybe you had mistaken content for boredom.

And now it was unpredictable, a welcomed unpredictability.

You learned the hard way not to leave the little one unattended, even for a moment; not for a few measly seconds. The broken porcelain of an old vase had been enough of a warning, luckily it wouldn’t be missed and after you had cleaned up the mess, you could hardly notice any wrong had happened. 

At least, your father didn’t notice. 

But the child was just curious and his cries as he sat horrified at the pieces of glass surrounding his feet had been enough of punishment for the both of you. 

This arrangement took too much convincing on your father's part.

He only wanted to protect you, but at this point, you doubt he was thinking straight. Your father had sacrificed too much to keep you safe; to carve out a simple life for you on the edges of the real world, to keep it from crushing your spirit the way it did his.

You assumed your father’s anxiousness about the situation stemmed from something you didn't think you could understand; loved ones lost long ago to the evil that had spread to your quiet town.

But there were some things that only time could heal and it seemed for him there was never enough.

He wanted to send ‘Mando’ packing as soon as the wounds stopped bleeding, and the sun lit up the morning sky.

But you convinced him otherwise.

There was no way he would've made it twenty minutes without hurting himself, more so since he had to care for a child. A child who you found very difficult to say no to, especially since he became such good company.

Mando could stay until he was healed. But there was work to be done.

Mando’s right arm had been wrapped in a makeshift sling, leaving his less dominant hand available to carry out whatever your father asked of him. Although you argued he shouldn't be working at all, both of the men disagreed with you. Papa decided it was only fair for him to work, to repay the debt he owed you.

You wouldn't call it a debt, but you kept that to yourself and let your father negotiate the terms of Mando’s stay.

There wasn't much argument, Mando would work odd jobs around your homestead, things that Papa was unable to do anymore, and things he hated to ask you to do; in return, he and his child would be allowed to stay until Mando healed. But there were conditions, terms that your father had laid out and would be considered law as he saw fit.

Mando would not be allowed to sleep in your home.

Your father made sure to bolt the doors once Mando had left after dinner, checking each of them before he could settle enough to try and sleep. A place was made for him in the barn, blankets and an extra pillow for him to sleep with, the least you could do for someone about to work your entire harvest for practically nothing. 

The child would be allowed to stay inside.

Papa had gone into the attic in the early morning after he agreed to let Mando stay, and pulled down the old crib that had been yours once upon a time. You aired and cleaned all of the blankets and toys you had sorted inside of it, hoping that maybe they could get one final use before they crumbled from age. He slept in your room, just down the hall from where you and your father stayed.

You didn't like the idea of separating someone from their child, but your father insisted and Mando made no objection otherwise.

Your attention for the past week was wrapped completely around the fingers of a grinning child, smiling and keeping his curiosity at bay when he grabbed at anything within reach. He used unsteady legs, you being his shadow for the entire day; picking up the small toys that were left in his wake of discovery. 

He was a healthy little boy, just barely big enough to explore some on his own, and he had the energy to prove it. There were only a few times he slowed enough to nap, sleep that weighed heavy on his eyelids as he crawled into your arms, puffing small breaths into the crook of your neck while he rested.

He refused to fall asleep alone, if his fingers weren't gripping yours with an unusual force he didn't allow himself to sleep; he just cried, wailed until you picked him up again, and finally settled when the sound of your heartbeat was within reach.

You couldn't imagine what this child has been through.

There were a few things only you and Papa had spoken about, conversations and theories about your guests, the stranger who slept in the loft of your barn, and his precious companion. Papa wasn't very sentimental towards them, he was gentle with the child and polite to Mando; but the sooner both of them had left, the easier he would sleep at night. He repeated the same thing before bed, his voice shaking and eyes worrisome in ways you had never thought would come from him. You didn't protest, just nodding your head and trying to soothe the lines seemingly etched into his brow. You drifted off as he squeezed your fingers in his, tighter than he ever had before, and pressed a worried kiss to your hand.

“Do not trust him.”

You hadn't told Papa about what happened between you and Mando once he had gone to bed, and you'd keep it from him so long as you stay sane. He would never know about how much you thought about it, how part of you wanted something like that to happen again, how you wanted to feel that blossom of heat in your chest ten times over.

Papa was under the impression the two of you had never spoken and it was best it stayed that way. 

He couldn't be a good man.

He had the scars to prove he was a fighter, most of the wounds old and standing out sharply against his skin.

You remember how they looked, how tender and soft the damaged flesh felt when you ran your fingers over it.

That doesn't just happen.

He carried a gun, and two more sat on the saddle of his horse. One fell from the pockets of his rucksack when you lifted it off the horse's back, the other a long rifle that was heavy and awkward in your arms.

You didn't tell Papa about that, you just hid them in the haystack of the barn and hoped he wouldn't find them.

But he was kind.

He hadn't spoken much, not to you. Maybe to your father but, he hardly looked you in the eye; his face was mostly hidden behind the brow of his hat and sometimes by the cloth he wore over his face when he worked.

Or he was cunning.

Maybe Papa was right, maybe the sooner they left the better.

You didn't want them to leave.

Mando wasn't like other men, he had an attachment; something you doubt most low-lives ever considered having.

And you wanted to know why.

The baby was squealing for your attention again, and he giggled loudly when you shifted him in your arms. Papa looked in your direction, watching the two of you sitting on the porch. You gave him a small smile, one he returned in genuine, with promise that reached the crinkles in the corner of his eyes. You busied yourself with taming wisps of the baby’s hair, for the hundredth time that day, soft curls that gently framed his face sticking out in every direction. He giggled again, his hands reaching out in curiosity as he curled his fingers into his palm and babbling away as you sat him on the porch floor. He took a few unsure steps, then taking the lead as if he knew exactly where he was going and you kneeled behind him ready to reach out when he lost his balance.

He made his way to the railing, stopping above the steps that led down to where Papa sat working.

He had bushels of food sitting at his feet; vegetables that had been growing in the fields you kept behind the house. It wasn't too impressive, just enough to suffice with a little leftover that was sold at the end of the season; but it took far too long to pick any of it when the time came.

After years of practicing medicine, your father had fumbled his way through becoming a farmer. Papa had already been working for a few days, and at dinner last night he gave Mando the task of starting the harvesting of the far-garden in the morning while he’d work what had already been picked.

Mando wasn’t much of a talker; he was polite, sometimes even kind when he spoke to you, but it was few and far between. He did everything asked of him, sometimes even more.

You had mentioned at dinner last night you were planning to wash laundry in the morning, gathering clothes and sheets and rags Papa unintentionally littered about the house. It was tiresome and took most of the day, the clothesline filled with garments that took hours to dry even on a summer day. The chill in the air wasn’t the problem at all this time, the heat was.

It was tedious to fill and heat the washpans, sometimes you’d think it better to ignore that step, but the constant cold on your raw fingertips told a different story.

You hurried to eat this morning, making sure the baby was fed and occupied, so you could begin filling the tubs for laundry. 

But someone beat you to it.

You found both of the tubs were sitting out by the clothesline, filled to the brim with steaming water and the laundry stacked beside them.

Papa had been with you all morning, he couldn’t have done it.

You wanted to thank him, but it felt silly to do so, your cheeks getting warm with the thought like some smitten schoolgirl.

You had seen him one other time today, when he came in for some lunch, his boots kicking up dust that tracked from the back door into the kitchen. His pants were just as filthy from digging in the gardens all day, but his sleeves had been pushed up his arms, and his hands were still damp from when he had washed them.

At least he's not a slob.

You don't think he notices you, standing on the far side of the kitchen, quietly watching as he removes his hat, pulls down the covering on his face, and sits next to the kid. He checks on him with a ruffle of his hair, the baby babbling away with a grin on his face as he watches Mando stuff his mouth with some of the bread and meat you sat out for him on the kitchen table.

He ate in silence, quick and rushed as if someone would take it from him before he could get enough to be satisfied. You stood at the other end of the kitchen, watching him eat and interacting with his kid. He said something to him, something so quiet you barely heard it but you saw the way his hand brushed over the curls on his boy's head; just like you had been doing almost every day you watched him. He finished as he drank glass fulls of water, over and over until the pitcher was nearly empty. 

His eyes are like saucers when he turns around to see you standing there, and his mouth opens and closes as if he was thinking of some defense.

Definitely didn't see you standing there.

You try your best to smile at him and move to ask him if he'd like more to eat, but he's gone. He grabs his hat from the table and mutters a thank you before slamming the door closed behind him.

It couldn't be easy with just one arm, nothing your father had given him was gentle and no matter how much he dismissed it, you could tell he was still in pain. Even with the medication given to him regularly, he winced at the slightest movement and was slow compared to your father.

You could barely see his silhouette, still moving out in the gardens and shadowed by the sun setting behind him. He takes a moment, sitting on his ass and looking up at the painted colors of the sky. Delicate pink and orange hues fill a blue sky, mixing until there is a symphony dancing above your heads, dusk settling over the land as everyone prepares for sleep. He stretches his neck from side to side, wiping his face with his sleeve with a huff and pulling himself back to his feet.

“He's a very sweet kid.” 

Papa’s voice interrupted your watching, your eyes snapping over to him taking a seat in his chair, patting his lap, and asking for the child to join him. He waddled over, reaching up with grubby hands and squealing as he was lifted in your father’s lap.

“Why don't you take some time and wash up for dinner.” Papa insisted, nodding towards the door as he settled the child on his lap. “I’ll call for you when it's ready.”

“Nonsense,” you sigh, standing up with a smile and turning towards the door. “Someone has to help you.”

“And that someone has to be you?” He’s grinning, nothing evil or malicious; mostly playful, with just a hint of mischief sparkling in his eyes.

Your earlier intentions of dinner are forgotten as you lean against a wooden doorframe, the aged wood scratching at your arm when the sleeve of your dress is pushed up. You watch Papa coo at the child, patting his head with careful hands as the toddler yawned and laid against his chest. Your feet ache as you look down at the worn boots you wear, the leather cracked and crumbling from age at the soles of your feet; they throb as you roll your ankles, switching your weight from one foot to the next until some of the pain subsided.

It’s just your breathing for a moment, the simple, rhythm rise and fall of your chest; occasionally dueted with the squeak of Papa’s old rocking chair.

“Looks like I'll need help taking this into town,” you gestured to the bushels sitting at the edge of your porch steps, cutting through the silence with a huff of your breath. “Kuill will be excited to see everything we've got for him.”

“Has he said anything to you?”

He took you by surprise, the change in subject hitting you with a force that had your chest seizing up. How pitiful you felt, your heart racing at the mention of a man who probably didn’t remember your name.

“No,” you offer meekly, hoping your father didn’t notice the change in your pitch. “Why?”

“He’s hardly spoken a word since he's been here.”

He rocks his seat back and forth in a steady motion, gentle as the baby in his arms drifts into slumber.

“Maybe he likes to keep to himself.” You shrug, moving to lean against the porch railing and face him.

Your father considered your reasoning, his brows knit with heavy thought and a frown set on his lips.

“Or he's guilty of something.”

There’s something you barely catch in Papa’s words, something like malice but with less bite as the words hit your ears.

“It's only for a few more days,” you pick at the splintered wood under your hand, the edges rough and pointed as they press deeper into your palm. “We'll manage.”

Papa nods his head, patting the baby’s back as he sleeps on his chest; his limbs stretching for just a moment before he settles back to sleep. You run your hands along the child’s back, soothing the tired grumbles that fell from his lips. Leaning forward, you pressed a kiss to your father’s temple, squeezing the free hand he had perched on the arm of his chair.

“You know they would've died if we hadn't helped.” You whisper it into his hairline with another kiss, turning to head back inside before anything else is said.

You keep quiet, somehow afraid of speaking nightmares into existence. They were safe for now, healing and resting what little they could on your farm. A stranger and his baby that dug tiny holes in your chest that you doubt were closing anytime soon. Part of you feared when the time came, you wouldn’t want to let your precious companion or his father go.

“I know.” 

-

An intake of breath is all he allows.

He says nothing, and his face is blank, staring in front of him with discipline as your father digs into his shoulder again. His wounds are still tender, pink, and fresh against his tan skin but he doesn’t even wince; there's barely a twitch in his eye, and the shaking push and pull of his breath is the only indication he felt any of it.

He does groan when your father pours alcohol over it, remnants of blood washing away from the openings in his shoulder, thrown away stitches sitting on the cloth with your father’s tools.

You didn’t ask how his stitches had broken, you could only assume it happened today while he was working, and it was almost dinner before you noticed the tint that had stained his shirt red.

You hold the child a little closer in your arms, turning his head and busying him when he reaches out for Mando. 

The painting hung mounted on the wall, just low enough it was about eye level with you and the child. You pointed to flowers caked in oil paints, their colors faded from years of the sun that breached the windowsill. He cooed as he followed your lead, tracing the petals with his fingers until he gave a big yawn.

You placed a kiss on the top of his head, the soap you used to wash him earlier still lingering on your lips as he laid on your chest. His blanket wrapped around him, the wool warm and green as you kept him snug in your arms.

“It’s time to say goodnight.”

You stayed at the threshold of the kitchen, Mando’s back turned to you as your father put new stitches into his shoulder. Papa paused for a moment, nodding his head in your direction until Mando turned his profile murmuring a ‘goodnight’ to the baby in your arms. He looked at you as he said it, something pulling deep in your belly as his eyes bore into yours; almost black in the darkness and twinkling from the light of your father’s lamp.

Papa cleared his throat, pulling your eyes towards him as you felt heat rush to your face. 

You hoped he couldn’t tell, that you didn’t look as flustered as you felt. When didn’t bring it up later, once the two of you were alone and everyone had gone to bed, you felt the pressure that built up in your chest dissipate. He went right to sleep, snoring loudly beside you while you laid wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling.

You're not sure what time it is, or how long you have been ‘asleep’ but everything blurs; your mind racing too fast for your drooping eyes to catch any sort of rest.

You laid warm beneath woolen covers as you watched the windows tint with fog, the barest hints of a cold breeze slipping between the cracks and leaving a chill in the air.

It must be very cold out in the barn.

You wouldn’t entertain the idea. Mando was a grown man, he didn’t need you to care for him or coddle him like he was a child.

Staying in bed was the right decision, but decision making was never your strong suit.

The doors to the barn looked wicked under the dim moonlight, tall and intimidating as you reached a shaking hand out to them. They groaned as you pulled open, the track they rested on squeaking and shrill in the quiet night.

You just hoped he was a heavy sleeper.

You carried the two blankets you had been washing just this morning, something Papa kept around for emergencies; thick, wooly blankets that were itchy and coarse on your skin.

They were better than nothing.

There was only one lamp lit, everything mostly covered in shadow save for the few feet of orange glow coming from the middle of the room. Hardly any sound in the air, nighttime completely dead save the occasional grunt and snort of the horses sleeping in their stalls. His belongings sat stacked in one corner, next to the makeshift bedding you had left in here just over a week ago. They were in a neat pile, a shirt and coat, his hat, the cloth he used on his face, and his holster.

He was nowhere to be found.

You put the blankets on his bedroll, hoping he would connect the dots whenever he came back. The hay crunch underneath your feet, even with your attempt at tiptoeing through the barn. You pulled the knitted shawl you wore tighter around you, shivering from the chill that seeped from cracked insulation in the walls.

You hadn’t even stood up before you jumped under the sudden baritone of his voice.

“Where are my guns?” 

The chill that ran down your spine wasn’t from the cold, but rather from accusation; deep, rich words that dripped from his words and held no real malice.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” You offered over your shoulder, slowly turning to face him head-on.

His arm was still in a sling, fresh bandaging that stood stark white against his worn clothes. He looked almost handsome in the orange hue of an oil lamp; his eyes bright even with the exhaustion pulling at his cheeks, his lips pouting and curls sticking out at his neck as if you had woken him in the embers of early morning.

“I know you didn't take them,”

He walked towards you, each step he took followed by your retreat until your back landed against the wall with a thud. Your eyes never leave him, never daring to break your stare even as your hand scrambled for purchase on the smooth wood at your back.

“So where are they?”

You counter him, thinking you're clever with a smile and a half-concocted comeback, batting your eyes when his lips quirk in response.

“How do you know I didn't keep them?”

He laughed, amusement hiding behind the rich color of his eyes and biting with the sparkle of his teeth.

“I doubt you've ever held a gun in your life, sweet girl.” His voice lowered at your pet name, sinful words that swirled at the base of your spine until you squirmed.

“I know you didn't take them.”

You take a deep breath, your cheeks burning when his hand comes to rest beside your head, his body coming just a hair closer until you feel pinned beneath him.

“I hid them.”

His eyebrow arches, questions stuck in the back of his throat that filter into one word.

“Why?”

You fiddled with the loose thread of your gown, wrapping the line excess around your finger until it pinched at the tip. Your ears thumped with the sound of your heartbeat, loud and racing as Mando drug his hand from your shoulder, across your neck. He cupped your jaw, squeezing your face in his hand for just a moment.

“You afraid of me, sweet girl?”

His voice rumbled, deep from his chest as he drags every word from smirking lips.

“Don't call me that.”

Any bite you had laced in your words was betrayed by the way you leaned into his touch, sighing when his fingers scratched at the hairs on the back of your neck.

“Yeah?” 

His lips were gentle, chapped, and sweet against yours with a tender kiss.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

You kissed him this time, testing the waters with a playful nip to his bottom lip; earning you a chuckle before he consumes you. Your lips slot lazily together in a clash of tongue as you taste one another, slow and sensual until your fingers thread his hair, tugging until he growls into your kiss.

“Thank you,” His breath puffed on your cheek, warm and wet on your skin as he trailed kisses over your face and neck. “For taking good care of my kid.”

“He's a sweetheart.” You huff out the words around a smile, your fingers tugging on Mando’s curls.

You almost moan when nips at your throat, his teeth leaving a mark on the juncture of your neck until he groans at the salty-sweet taste of soap on your skin.

“And you're beautiful.”

He steals the breath right from your lungs, gasping in between the short moments when his mouth wasn’t molded against yours. His hand on the back of your neck kept you pressed to his chest, your fingers ghosting over the stitches you could feel through the thin material of his shirt.

His leg was firmly pushed in between yours, his body supporting most of you as he hitched your leg to rest over his hip. The muscle of his thigh flexing when you barely rocked your hips against him. The cotton material of your nightgown did nothing to hide the feeling of rough denim on the softness of your thighs, scraping and molding red indents from the back and forth motion your hips made.

You nearly shout when he snakes his hand in between your bodies, cupping your mound while his fingers work against the bundle throbbing in between your legs; sparks of electricity shoot down to your toes and into the tips of your fingers with the slightest of touches. You ache against him, your body moving with him and seeking an unfamiliar end, a delicious coil in your belly that wound tighter and tighter with every swipe of his two fingers.

You’re panting, muffling pathetic whimpers against his ear while he mouths at the deliciously tender spot on your neck. You can hardly hold your head up, your mind swimming in a thick, intoxicating fog until the world blurred around the edges. You feel the build-up at the base of your spine boiling over, almost all-consuming to the point it tingles every nerve in your body with anticipation. 

You grip his forearm until your nails leave pale, pink marks in your wake, and push him away to finally breathe again.

He is about the only thing keeping you upright, slowly he dropped your leg until you stood alone; his touches stopped, leaving a dull, unsatisfied ache that seeped into your bones. The sweat gathered at your hairline was annoying, tickling you to the point of discomfort until you swiped it away with the back of your hand.

“I don’t want Papa...”

You can’t think, nothing on the forefront of your mind coherent enough; like you were hopelessly lagging while your thoughts raged and laid stuck on the tip of your tongue. You squeeze your eyes shut, rubbing your temple with your eyes opened, and find Mando looking right back at you.

If your father woke up to you gone, you’re not sure what he would do, other than assuming the worst.

And you certainly didn’t want him to catch you in the barn, not like this.

“I-I don’t…”

His eyes were almost gentle, sharp and consuming as always, but kind behind the harsh set of his brow.

He brushes pieces of your hair behind your ear, his touch still burning as it did before but with half the intensity felt a few moments ago.

“Go get some sleep.”

You collect yourself, pulling the shawl on your shoulders tight as you tuck your hands underneath your arms. He steps back once you regained composure and watches you even as you walk away.

You only make it a few steps before he calls after you.

“Tomorrow?”

There’s a hint of something in his voice.

Tease? Promise? Flirt?

Something that pulls harsh at your little heartstrings he had wrapped around his finger.

“How'd you like to go hunting?”


End file.
